Letters From Stanford
by eightyeightkate
Summary: Sam writes things he'll never send. Wincest, possibly one-sided.
1. A letter from Stanford

Dear Dean,

I'll never send this because, well...if you weren't totally disturbed you'd definitely laugh, so I'll just write this letter because I have to get it out and maybe if I do I'll feel better.

I miss you, Dean. I miss you so badly it hurts sometimes. I'll come back to the apartment after classes and Jessica comes up and wraps her arms around me and she's so soft and sweet and smells like lilies, and all I want is the smell of you, gun oil and smoke, and I want her soft arms to be your strong arms, holding me tightly and telling me everything's gonna be okay.

I've been having these dreams about you. Sometimes in my dreams we...well, we do things, Dean. Sometimes you're kissing me in ways that we really shouldn't be kissing, or you're kneeling in front of me taking care of me - and your mouth feels so good, so hot and perfect, and your lips look so beautiful like that, wrapped around my cock, right where they should be. Sometimes you're making love to me, taking care of me that way, thrusting slow and firm right into me, my legs around your knees, staring into your eyes and we're kissing again in those ways that we shouldn't be...

But that's not all, Dean. Sometimes I wake up from these dreams hard and wanting and then Jessica is the one there, and she smiles that devilish smile and goes down on me and I close my eyes and imagine she's you. I wish she were you.

I can't stand how much I miss you, Dean. I wish I could tell you. I wish you could know. But I guess I'll just have to content myself with a letter you'll never read, a letter that, as soon as I'm done writing, I'll toss in the sink with a match and some lighter fluid.

I miss you. I want you. I need you.

Love always,

Sammy


	2. Another letter from Stanford

Dear Dean,

Jessica found the last letter I wrote you before I could get rid of it. Now she thinks I'm some kind of freak. Took her long enough to realize that. She's way too good for me, Dean. She's so perfect and light and good and she deserves a guy who's not stuck on his brother. The worst part is that she's staying with me. She thinks I just need help, guidance. She thinks that maybe it's her fault, that she didn't love me enough or something. I've tried to convince her that it's not her fault at all, that I'm just fucked up deep down.

The worst part of it is that this hasn't snapped me to my senses or anything. I still want you, Dean. I've wanted you since I knew what wanting was. How I want you has changed over the years of course, and gotten gradually more and more messed up, but I don't know how to not want you.

She has me sleeping on the couch now – she's totally pissed and all broken up over this, I still don't know why she's staying – and now it's worse when I have the dreams, because I don't have her to make them real. I just lie there with that horrible scratchy afghan and stare up at the ceiling, touching myself and thinking of you. Only ever you. It's not guys, Dean. It's just you.

Last night I had the most vivid dream yet. I was lying on a bed – one of those awful lumpy motel beds that I can never really sleep on but you somehow always managed to pass out dead asleep and I never could figure out how you did it – and I couldn't move. I think maybe you had me tied down, but it was with something soft, like silk or cotton or something, and I had something over my eyes. I felt your hands on me, so gentle but so sure, gliding over my skin, followed by your lips and your tongue and you were whispering things to me. I don't remember what. I think it had something to do with how much you loved and wanted me and how you were always there for me.

Where are you now, Dean? Salting and burning some poor person's bones in Kentucky or something? I wish you were here. I wish you were next to me on this couch, curled into me and around me like we used to sleep when we were kids and I was scared. I'm scared, Dean. I'm scared of these feelings and these dreams and I just want you to be here and to tell me that I'm not totally fucked up. I don't care if you don't feel the same way. I just want someone who understands me. I want someone who loves me.

Do you love me, Dean? Like you always did? I can't send you this letter, but I can pray that maybe you'll know somehow that I need you, and you'll come get me. Please come get me, Dean.

Love always,

Sammy


	3. One last letter from Stanford

Dear Dean,

Jessica's let me back in the bed but I don't think she's forgiven me. I don't think she'll ever forgive me. I think I need to move out. I've been looking for a place to stay until I can find my own apartment, but what do I say? "Hey guys, Jess kicked me out because I've been pining over my brother?"

I've been spending a lot of time holding my cell with my thumb over your speed dial number, dying to press it and ask you go come get me but I can't just leave Stanford, not when I'm so close to everything I've ever wanted. But then I think...why bother? I'm never going to fit in here. Not after how we grew up. I'm a freak through and through, even if I didn't have these feelings for you. I'll never be able to let it go if I hear about a disappearance or death that seems suspicious. I'll always sleep with a gun under my pillow.

I thought that this was what I wanted. I thought I wanted out of the life and to settle down and have 2.5 kids and a picket fence. But I'm not happy here, Dean. I haven't really been happy since I left four years ago. I've started to look forward to sleep just because you're always in my dreams and for a while I can forget how miserable I am without you.

This is the last letter that I'm going to write you. I'm not going to send it. I'm going to call you. I don't care if you answer or anything I just need to tell you all these things, actually tell you, because I can't keep it inside any more. I need you to know. I want you to care about me again.

I'm going to call you now. Please pick up the phone.

Love always,

Sammy


End file.
